The warm sun shoneOn blind, grey Ossian musing all aloneUpon a knoll before the high stockade,When Oscar's son came nigh. His hand he laidOn the boy's curls, and then his fingers strayedOver the face and round the tender chin—"Be thou as brave as Oscar, wise as Finn,"Said Ossian, with a sigh. "Nay, I would beA bard," the boy made answer, "like to thee.""Alas! my son," the gentle Ossian said,"My song was born in sorrow for the dead!…O may such grief as Ossian's ne'er be thine!—If thou would'st sing, may thou below the pineMurmuring, thy dreams conceive, and happy be,Nor hear but sorrow in the breaking seaAnd death-sighs in the gale. Alas! my songThat rose in sorrow must survive in wrong—My life is spent and vain—a day of thineWere better than a long, dark year of mine….But come, my son—so lead me by the hand—To hear the sweetest harper in the land—The wild, free wind of Spring; all o'er the hillsAnd under, let us go, by tuneful rillsWe'll wander, and my heart shall sweetened beWith echoes of the moorland melody—My clarsach wilt thou bear." And so went theyTogether from Knockfarrel. Long they layWithin the woods of Brahan, and by the shoreOf silvery Conon wended, crossing o'erThe ford at Achilty, where Ossian toldThe tale of Finn, who there had slain the boldBlack Arky in his youth. And ere the taleWas ended, they had crossed to Tarradale.Where dwelt a daughter of an ancient raceDeep-learned in lore, and with the gift to traceThe thread of life in the dark web of fate.And she to Ossian cried, "Thou comest lateToo late, alas! this day of all dark days—Knockfarrel is before me all ablaze—A fearsome vision flaming to mine eyes—O beating heart that bleeds! I hear the criesOf those that perish in yon high stockade—O many a tender lad, and lonesome maid,Sweet wife and sleeping babe, and hero old—O Ossian could'st thou see—O child, beholdYon ruddy, closing clouds … so falls the fateOf all the tribe … Alas! thou comest late." …
When Ossian from Knockfarrel went, a bandOf merry maidens, trooping hand in hand,Came forth, with laughing eyes and flowing hair,To share the freedom of the morning air;Adown the steep they went, and through the woodWhere Garry splintered logs in sullen mood—Pining to join the chase! His wrath he wroughtUpon the trees that morn, as if he foughtAgainst a hundred foemen from the west,Till he grew weary, and was fain to rest.
The maids were wont to shower upon his headTheir merry taunts, and oft from them he fled;For of their quips and jests he had more fearThan e'er he felt before a foeman's spear—And so he chose to be alone.
The airWas heavily laden with the odour rareOf deep, wind-shaken fir trees, breathing sweet,As through the wood, the maids, with silent feet,Went treading needled sward, in light and shade,Now bright, now dim, like flow'rs that gleam and fade,And ever bloom and ever pass away …
Upon a fairy hillock Garry layIn sunshine fast asleep: his head was bare,And the wind rippling through his golden hairLaid out the seven locks that were his pride,Which one by one the maids securely tiedTo tether-pins, while Garry, breathing deep,Moaned low, and moved about in troubled sleepThen to a thicket all the maidens crept,And raised the Call of Warning … Garry leaptFrom dreams that boded ill, with sudden fearThat a fierce band of foemen had come near—The seven fetters of his golden hairHe wrenched off as he leapt, and so laid bareA shredded scalp of ruddy wounds that bledWith bitter agony … The maidens fledWith laughter through the wood, and climb'd the pathOf steep Knockfarrel. Fierce was Garry's wrathWhen he perceived who wronged him. With a shriekThat raised the eagles from the mountain peak,He shook his spear, and ran with stumbling feet,And sought for vengeance, speedy and complete—The lust of blood possessed him, and he sworeTo slay them…. But they shut the oaken doorEre he had reached that high and strong stockade—From whence, alas! nor wife, nor child, nor maidCame forth again.
Soft-couch'd upon a bankLay Caoilte on the cliff-top, while he drankThe sweetness of the morning air, that broughtA spell of dreamful ease and pleasant thought,With mem'ries from the deeps of other yearsWhen Dermaid, unforgotten by his peers,And Oscar, fair and young, went forth with mirthA-hunting o'er the hills around the firthOn such an April morn….
He leapt to hearThe Fians shouting from a woodland nearTheir hunting-call. Then swift he sped a-pace,With bounding heart, to join the gladsome chase;Stooping he ran, with poised, uplifted spear,As through the woods approached the nimble deerThat swerved, beholding him. With startled tossOf antlers, down the slope it fled, to crossThe open vale before him … To the westThe Fians, merging from the woodland, pressedTo head it shoreward … All the fierce hounds bayedWith hungry ardour, and the deer, dismayed,With foaming nostrils leapt, and strove to fleeTowards the deep, dark woods of Calrossie.But Caoilte, fresh from resting, was more fleetThan deer or dogs, and sped with naked feet,Until upon a loose and sandy bank,Plunging his spear into the smoking flank,Its flight he stayed…. He stabbed it as it sank,The life-blood spurting; and he saw it dieOr ever dog or huntsman had come nigh.
Then eager feast they made; and after longAnd frequent fast of winter, they grew strongAs they had been of old. And of their fareThe lean and scrambling hounds had ready share.
Nor over-fed they in their merry mood,But set to hunt again, and through the woodScattered with eager pace, ere yet the sunHad climbed to highest noon; for lo! each oneHad mem'ry of the famished cheeks and whiteOf those who waited their return by night,In steep Knockfarrel's desolate stockade—O' many a beauteous and bethrothèd maid,And mothers nursing babes, and warriors lyingIn winter-fever's spell, the old men dying,And slim, fair lads who waited to acclaim,With gladsome shout, the huntsmen when they cameWith burdens of the chase … So they pursuedThe hunt till eve was nigh. In Geanies woodAnother deer they slew …
Caoilte, who stoodOn a high ridge alone … with eager eyesScanning the prospect wide … in mute surpriseSaw rising o'er Knockfarrel, a dark cloudOf thick and writhing smoke … Then fierce and loudUpon his horn he blew the warning blast—From out the woods the Fians hastened fast—Lo! when they stared towards the western sky,They saw their winter dwelling blazing high.
Then fear possessed them for their own, and griefUnutterable. And thus spake their wise chief,To whom came knowledge and the swift, sure thought—"Alas! alas! an enemy hath wroughtBlack vengeance on our kind. In yonder gleamOf fearsome flame, the horrors of my dreamAre now accomplished—all we loved and cherished,And sought, and fought for, in that pyre have perished!"
White-lipped they heard…. Then, wailing loud, they ran,Following the nimble Caoilte, man by man,Towards Knockfarrel; leaping on their spearsO'er marsh and stream. MacReithin, blind with tears,Tumbled or leapt into a swollen floodThat swept him to the sea. But no man stoodTo help or mourn him, for the eve grew dim—And some there were, indeed, who envied him.
As snarls the wolf at bay within the woodOn huntsmen and their hounds, so Garry stoodRaging before the women who had madeSecure retreat within the high stockade;He cursed them all, and their loud laughter rangMore bitter to his heart than e'en the pangOf his fierce wounds. Then while his streaming bloodHalf-blinded him, he hastened to the wood,And a small tree upon his shoulders bore,And fixed it fast against the oaken door,That none might issue forth.
Then once againTowards the wood he turned, but all in vainThe women waited his return, till theyGrey weary.. for in pain and wrath he layIn a close thicket, brooding o'er his shame,And panting for revenge.
Then Finn's wife cameTo set the women to the wheel and loom,With angry chiding; and a heavy gloomFell on them all. "Who knoweth," thus she spake,"What evil may the Fian men o'ertakeThis day of evil omens. Yester-nightI say the pale ghost of my sire with whiteAnd trembling lips … At morn before my sightA raven darted from the wood, and slewA brooding dove … What fear is mine!… for whoWould us defend if our fierce foemen came—When Garry is against us … Much I blameThy wanton deed." … The women heard in shame,Nor answer made.
The sun, with fiery gleam,Scattered the feath'ry clouds, as in a dreamThe spirits of the dead are softly sweptFrom severed visions sweet. A low wind creptAround with falt'ring steps, and, pausing, sighed—Then fled to murmur from the mountain sideAmid the pine-tree shade; while all aglowBen-Wyvis bared a crest of shining snowIn barren splendour o'er the slumbering strath;While some sat trembling, fearing Garry's wrath,Some feared the coming of the foe, and someHad vague forebodings, and were brooding dumb,And longed to greet the huntsmen. Mothers laidTheir babes to sleep, and many a gentle maidSighed for her lover in that lone stockade;And one who sat apart, with pensive eye,Thus sang to hear the peewee's plaintive cry—
_Peewee, peewee, crying sweet,Crying early, crying late—Will your voice be never wearyCrying for your mate?Other hearts than thine are lonely,Other hearts must wait.
Peewee, peewee, I'd be flyingO'er the hills and o'er the sea,Till I found the love I long forWhereso'er he'd be—Peewee crying, I'd be flying,Could I fly like thee!_
When Garry, who had stanched his wounds, arose,He seized his axe, and 'gan with rapid blowsTo fell down fir trees. Through the silent strathThe hollow echoes rang. With fiendish wrathHe made resolve to heap the splintered woodAgainst the door, and burn the hated broodOf his tormentors one and all. He hewedAn ample pyre, then piled it thick and high,While the sun, sloping to the western sky,Proclaimed the closing of that fateful day.But the doomed women little dreamed that theyWould have such fearsome end … As Garry layRubbing the firesticks till they 'gan to glow,He heard a Fian mother singing low—
_Sleep, O sleep, I'll sing to thee—Moolachie, O moolachie.Sleep, O sleep, like yon grey stone,Moolachie, mine own.
Sleep, O sleep, nor sigh nor fret ye,And the goblins will not get ye,I will shield ye, I will pet ye—Moolachie, mine own._
The mother sang, the gentle babe made moan—And Garry heard them with a heart of stone …With fiendish laugh, he saw the leaping flamesPossess the pyre; he heard the shrieking dames,And maids and children, wailing in the gloomOf smothering smoke, e'er they had met their doom.Then when the high stockade was blazing red,Ere yet their cries were silenced, Garry fled,And westward o'er the shouldering hills he sped.
A broad, faint twilight lingered to unfoldThe sun's slow-dying beams of tangled gold,And the long, billowy hills, in gathering shade,Their naked peaks and ebon crags displayedSharp-rimmed against the tender heaven and pale;And misty shadows gathered in the vale—When Caoilte to Knockfarrel came, and sawAmid the dusk, with sorrow and with awe,The ruins of their winter dwelling laidIn smouldering ashes; while the high stockadeAround the rocky wall, like ragged teeth,Was crackling o'er the melting stones beneath,Still darting flame, and flickering in the breeze.
He sped towards the wood, and through the treesCalled loud for those who perished. On his fairAnd gentle spouse he called in his despair.His sweet son, and his sire, whose hair was whiteAs Wyvis snow, he called for in the night.Full loud and long across the Strath he cried—The echoes mocked him from the mountain side.
Ah! when his last hope faded like the waveOf twilight ebbing o'er the hills, he gaveHis heart to utter grief and deep despair;And the cold stars peer'd down with pitiless stare,While sank the wind in silence on its flightThrough the dark hollows of the spacious night;And distant sounds seem'd near. In his dismayHe heard a Fian calling far away.The night-bird answered back with dismal cry,Like to a wounded man about to die—But Caoilte's lips were silent … Once againAnd nearer, came the voice that cried in vain.Then swift steps climbed Knockfarrel's barren steep,And Alvin called, with trembling voice and deep,To Caoilte, crouching low, with bended head,"Who liveth?" … "I am here alone," he said …Thus Fian after Fian came to shareTheir bitter grief, in silence and despair.
All night they kept lone watch, until the dawnWith stealthy fingers o'er the east had drawnIts dewy veil and dim. Then Finn aroseFrom deep and sleepless brooding o'er his woes,And spake unto the Fians, "Who shall restWhile flees our evil foeman farther west?Arise!" … "But who hath done this deed?" they sighed;And Finn made answer, "Garry." … Then they criedFor vengeance swift and terrible, and leaptTo answer Finn's command.
A cold wind sweptFrom out the gates of morning, moaning loud,As swift they hastened forth. A ragged shroudOf gathering tempest o'er Ben-Wyvis castA sudden gloom, and round it, falling fast,It drifted o'er the darkened slopes and bare,And snow-flakes swirled in the chill morning air—Then o'er the sea, the sun leapt large and bright,Scatt'ring the storm. And moor and crag lay white,As westward o'er the hills the Fians allIn quest of Garry sped.
At even-fallThey found him … On the bald and rocky sideOf steep Scour-Vullin, Garry lay to hideWithin a cave, which, backward o'er the snow,He entered, that his steps might seem to showHe had fled eastward by the path he came.All day he sought to flee them in his shame,Watching from lofty crag or deep ravine,And crouching in the heath, with haggard mien—He sought in vain to hide till darkness castIts blinding cloak betwixt them.
When at lastFinn cried, "Come forth, thou dog of evil deeds,Nor respite seek!" … His limbs like wind-swept reedsTrembled and bent beneath him; so he roseAnd came to meet his friends who were his foes—Then unto Finn he spake with accents meek,"One last request I of the Fians seek,Whom I have loved in peace and served in strife"—"'Tis thine," said Finn, "but ask not for thy life,For thou art 'mong the Fians." … "I would die,"Said Garry, "with my head laid on thy thigh;And let young Alvin take thy sword, that heMay give the death that will mine honour be."
'Twas so he lay to die … But as the bladeSwept bright, young Alvin, keen for vengeance, swayed,And slipped upon the sward … And his fierce blowThat Garry slew, the Fian chief laid low—A grievous wound was gaping on his thigh,And poured his life-blood forth … A low, weird cryThe great Finn gave, as he fell back and swooned—In vain they strove to stanch the fearsome wound—His life ebbed slowly with the sun's last rayIn gathering gloom … And when in death he lay,The glory of the Fians passed away.
O Mairi Dhu, the weaver's wife,Will have the evil eye;The fear will come about my heartWhen she'll be passing by;She'll have the piercing look to woundThe very birds that fly.
I would not have her evil wish,I would not have her praise,For like the shadow would her curse,Me follow all my days—When she my churning will speak well,No butter can I raise.
O Mairi Dhu will have the eyeTo wound the very deer—Ah! would she scowl upon my bairnsWhen her they would come near?They'll have the red cords round their necks,So they'll have naught to fear.
It's Murdo Ban, the luckless man,Against her would prevail;And first her eye was on his churn,Then on the milking pail;When she would praise the brindled cow,The cow began to ail.
The trout that gambol in the poolShe'll wound when she goes past;Then weariness will come uponThe fins that flicked so fast;And one by one the lifeless thingsWill on the stones be cast.
O Mairi Dhu, you gave yon sprainTo poor Dun Para's arm;It is myself would have the workUndoing of the harm—I'd twist around the three-ply cordWell-knotted o'er the charm.
Your eye you'd put on yon sweet babeO' Lachlan o' Loch-Glass;He'd fill the wooden ladle whereThe dead and living pass—And with the water, silver-charmed,He'd save his little lass.
I'll lock my cheese within the chest,My butter I will hide;I'll bar the byre at milking time,Although you'll wait outside—You'll maybe go another way—Who'll care for you to bide?
So you're coming, ye reivers and rogues,When the men will be fighting afar—Oh! all the Mac Quithens[1] are boldWhen it's only with women they'll war
Weasels that creep in the dark!Foxes that prowl in the night!Rats that are hated and vile!—O hasten you out of my sight!
Oh! my cow you would take from my byre?—This day will the beggars be brave!You'd be lifting the thatch from the roofIf you hadna' a roof to your cave
Your chief he's the lord o' the lies!A wind-bag his wife wi' the brag!Your clan is the pride o' the thieves—Whose meal will you have in your bag?
Now, Laspuig Maclan[2] may blush—Oh! he'll be the sorrowful man—His fame for the thieving is goneTo the reivers and rogues of your clan
You'll spare me "so old and so frail,Fitter to die than to live?"But maybe I'll slay with the tongueAnd the heart that will never forgive
The curse of the frail will be strong,The curse of the widow be sure;O the curse of the wrong'd will avenge,Black, black is the curse of the poor!
Ha! laugh at your ease while you can—Laugh! it's the devil's turn next—For after I'm done with you all,O who will be doleful and vext?
Bare-kneed on the ground will I go—My hair on my shoulders let fall,Now hear me and never forgetMy curses I'll cast on you all
_Little increase to your clan!The down-mouth to you and to yours!The blight on your little black cave!The luck o' a Friday on moors!
Fire upon land be your lot!Drowning in storm on the deep!Leave not a son to succeed!Leave not a daughter to weep!
Here's the bad meeting to you!Death without priest be your fate!Go to your grandfather's[3] house—The Son of the Cursing[4] will wait!_
[Footnote 1: This clan, which had an evil reputation, is extinct]
[Footnote 2: Laspuig MacIan—A famous thief]
[Footnote 3: "Grandfather's house"—The grave]
[Footnote 4: "Son of the Cursing"—The devil]
Would Murdo make the wry mouth?Is Ailie cross-eyed?O mock no more the beggar man,You'll scorn wi' pride!The wind that will be blowing west,Might turn and blow south—O, Ailie, it would fix your eyesAnd Murdo's wry mouth.
O mind ye o' the LeobagAnd yon rock cod—"Ho! there's the mouth," the 'cute one cried,"For the hook and rod!"The tide it would be turning whileThe Leobag would mock—And that is why it's gaping asIt gaped below the rock.
[Footnote 1: Leobag—The flounder.]
'Tis for thee I will be pining,Tober Mhuire. Thou art deep and sweet and shining,Tober Mhuire. In the dimness I'll be dying, And my soul for thee is sighing With the blessings on thee lying—Tober Mhuire.
O thy cool, sweet waters dripping,Tober Mhuire, Now my sere lips would be sipping,Tober Mhuire. O my lips are sere and burning— For thy waters I'll be yearning, And yon road of no returning,Tober Mhuire.
O thy coolness and thy sweetness,Tober Mhuire. O thy sureness and completeness,Tober Mhuire. O this life I would be leaving, With the greyness of its grieving, And the deeps of its deceiving,Tober Mhuire.
I would sip thy waters holy,Tober Mhuire. While the drops of life drip slowly,Tober Mhuire— Till the wings of angel whiteness, With their softness and their lightness, Blind me, fold me, in their brightness—Tober Mhuire.
(Sung by Grainne to Diarmid in their Flight from the Fians.)
Sleep a little O Diarmid, Diarmid,Sleep in the deep lone cave;Sleep a little—a little little,Love whom my love I gave—Wearily falls O Diarmid, Diarmid,Wearily falls the wave.
Sleep a little, O Diarmid, Diarmid,Sleep, and have never a fear;Sleep a little—a little little,Love whom I love so dear—A weary wind, O Diarmid, Diarmid,A weary wind I hear.
Sleep a little, O Diarmid, Diarmid,Sleep, while I watch till you wake;Sleep a little—a little little,Love whom I'll ne'er forsake—Sleep a little, and blessings on youMy lamb, or my heart will break.
The sea sings loud, the sea sings low,And sweet is the chime of its ebb and flowOver the shingly strand;For its strange, sweet song that woos my earThe first man heard, as the last shall hear—Seeking to understand …
Now when the last hour of his life drew nigh,Cuchullin woke from dreams forewarning death;And cold and awesome came the night-bird's cry—An evil omen the magician saith—A low gust panted like a man's last breath,As morning crept into the chamber black;Then all his weapons clashed and tumbled from the rack.
For the last time his evil foemen came;The sons of Calatin by Lugaid led.The land lay smouldering with smoke and flame;The duns were fallen and the fords ran red;And widows fled, lamenting for their dead,To fair Emania on that fateful day,Where all forsworn with fighting great Cuchullin lay.
Levarchan, whom he loved, a maid most fair,Rose-lipp'd, with yellow hair and sea-grey eyes,The evil tidings to Cuchullin bare.And, trembling in her beauty, bade him rise;Niamh, brave Conal's queen, the old, the wise,Urged him with clamour of the land's alarms,And, stirr'd with vengeful might, the hero sprang to arms.
His purple mantle o'er his shoulders wideIn haste he flung, and tow'ring o'er them stoodAll scarr'd and terrible in battle pride—His brooch, that clasp'd his mantle and his hoodThen fell his foot to pierce, and his red bloodFollow'd, like fate, behind him as he stepp'dLevarchan shriek'd, and Niamh moaned his doom and wept
Thus sallying forth he called his charioteer,And bade him yoke the war-steeds of his choice—The Grey of Macha, shuddering in fear,Had scented death, and pranced with fearsome noise,But when it heard Cuchullin's chiding voice,Meekly it sought the chariot to be bound,And wept big tears of blood before him on the ground
Then to his chariot leapt the lord of war'O leave me not!' Levarchan cried in woe,Thrice fifty queens, who gather'd from afar,Moan'd with one voice, 'Ah, would'st thou from us go?'They smote their hands, and fast their tears did flow—Cuchullin's chariot thunder'd o'er the plainFull well he knew that he would ne'er return again
How vehement and how beautiful they swept—The Grey of Macha and the Black most boldAnd keen-eyed Laegh, the watchful and adept,Nor turn'd, nor spake, as on the chariot roll'dThe steeds he urged with his red goad of goldStooping he drave, with wing'd cloak and spheres,Slender and tall and red—the King of Charioteers!
Cuchullin stood impatient for the fray,His golden hilted bronze sword on his thighA sharp and venomous dart beside him lay,He clasp'd his ashen spear, bronze-tipp'd and high,As flames the sun upon the western sky,His round shield from afar was flashing bright,Figured with radiant gold and rimm'd with silver white
Stern-lipp'd he stood, his great broad head thrown back,The white pearls sprayed upon his thick, dark hair,Deep set, his eyes, beneath his eyebrows black,Were swift and grey, and fix'd his fearless stare,Red-edg'd his white hood flamed, his tunic rareOf purple gleam'd with gold, his cloak behindHis shoulders shone with silver, floating in the wind
Betimes three crones him meet upon the way,Half-blind and evil-eyed, with matted hair—Workers of spells and witcheries are they—The brood of Calatin—beware! beware!They proffer of their fulsome food a share,And, 'Stay with us a while,' a false crone cries'Unseemly is the strong who would the weak despise'
He fain would pass, but leapt upon the ground,The proud, the fearless! for sweet honour's sake—With spells and poisons had they cook'd a hound,Of which he was forbidden to partakeBut his name-charm the brave Cuchullin brake,And their foul food he in his left hand took—Eftsoons his former strength that arm and side forsook
For, O Cuchullin! could'st thou ere forget,When fast by Culann's fort on yon black night,Thou fought'st and slew the ban-dog dark as jet,Which scared the thief, and put the foe to flight!A tender youth thou wert of warrior might,And all the land did with thy fame resound,As Cathbad, the magician, named thee 'Culann's hound'
Loud o'er Mid Luachair road the chariot roll'd,Round Shab Fuad desolate and grand,Till Ere with hate the hero did behold,Hast'ning to sweep the foemen from the land,His sword flash'd red and radiant in his hand,In sunny splendour was his spear upraised,And hovering o'er his head the light of heroes blazed
He comes! he comes!' cried Ere as he drew near'Await him, Men of Erin, and be strong!'Their faces blanch'd, their bodies shook with fear—'Now link thy shields and close together throng,And shout the war-cry loud and fierce and longThen Ere, with cunning of his evil heart,Set heroes forth in pairs to feign to fight apart
As furious tempests, that in deep woods roarAssault the giant trees and lay them low,As billows toss the seaweed on the shore,As sweeping sickles do the ripe fields mow—Cuchullin, rolling fiercely on the foe,Broke through the linked ranks upon the plain,To drench the field with blood and round him heap the slain
And when he reach'd a warrior-pair that stoodIn feignèd strife upon a knoll of green,Their weapons clashing but unstained with blood,A satirist him besought to intervene,Whereat he slew them as he drave between—"Thy spear to me," the satirist cried the while,The hero answering, "Nay," he cried, "I'll thee revile."
'Reviled for churlishness I ne'er have been,"Cuchullin call'd, up-rising in his pride,And cast his ashen spear bronze-tipp'd and keenAnd slew the satirist and nine beside,Then his fresh onslaught made the host divideAnd flee before him clamouring with fear,The while the stealthy Lugaid seized Cuchullin's spear
"O sons of Calatin," did Lugaid call,"What falleth by the weapon I hold here?"Together they acclaim'd, "A King will fall,For so foretold," they said, "the aged seer."Then at the chariot he flung the spear,And Laegh was stricken unto death and fellCuchullin drew the spear and bade a last farewell
"The victor I, and eke the charioteer!"He cried, and drave the war-steeds fierce and fast.Another pair he slew, "To me thy spear,"Again a satirist call'd. The spear was cast,And through the satirist and nine men pass'dBut Lugaid grasps it, and again doth call,—"What falleth by this spear?" They shout, "A King will fall"
"Then fall," cried Lugaid, as he flung the spear—The Grey of Macha sank in death's fierce throes,Snapping the yoke, the while the Black ran clear:Cuchullin groan'd, and dash'd upon his foes;Another pair he slew with rapid blows,And eke the satirist and nine men near:Then once more Lugaid sprang to seize the charmèd spear.
"What falleth by this weapon?" he doth call"A King will fall," they answer him again …"But twice before ye said, 'A King will fall'" …They cried, "The King of Steeds hath fled the plain,And lo, the King of Charioteers is slain!" …For the last time he drave the spear full well,And smote the great Cuchullin—and Cuchullin fell
The Black steed snapp'd the yoke, and left aloneThe King of Heroes dying on the plain:"I fain would drink," they heard Cuchullin groan,"From out yon loch" … He thirsted in fierce pain."We give thee leave, but thou must come again,"His foemen said; then low made answer he,"If I will not return, I'll bid you come to me"
His wound he bound, and to the loch did hie,And drank his drink, and wash'd, and made no moan.Then came the brave Cuchullin forth to die,Sublimely fearless, strengthless and alone …He wended to the standing pillar-stone,Clutching his sword and leaning on his spear,And to his foemen called, "Come ye, and meet me here."
A vision swept upon his fading brain—A passing vision glorious and sweet,That hour of youth return'd to him againWhen he took arms with fearless heart a-beat,As Cathbad, the magician, did repeat,"Who taketh arms upon this day of grief,His name shall live forever and his life be brief"
Fronting his foes, he stood with fearless eye,His body to the pillar-stone he bound,Nor sitting nor down-lying would he die …He would die standing … so they gathered roundIn silent wonder on the blood-drench'd ground,And watch'd the hero who with Death could strive;But no man durst approach … He seem'd to be alive …
Harp of my fathers—on the mouldering wallOf days forgotten—like a far-off windHushing the fir-wood at soft even-fall,Thy low-heard whispers to my heart recallThe wistful songs, to Silence Old consigned,That Ossian sang when he was frail and blind.
Thy fitful notes from the melodious trees,I fain would echo in my feeble rhyme—The inner music quivering on the breezeI hear; and throbbing from the beating seas,On ancient shores, the wearied pulse of TimeThat mingles with thy melodies sublime.
'Twas when I woke I knew it was a dream,Measured by moments, that to me did seem,A life-long spell of joy and peace to be—
Will that last dream that comes ere death descends,From which I shall not wake to know it ends,Thus seem to live on through Eternity?
Say not the will of man is freeWithin the limits of his soul—Who from his heritage can flee?Who can his destiny control?
In vain we wage perpetual strife,'Gainst instincts dumb and blind desires—Who leads must serve.. The pulse of lifeThrobs with the dictates of our sires.
Since when the world began to be,And life through hidden purpose came,From sire to son unceasinglyThe task bequeathed hath been the same.
We strive, while fetters bind us fast,We seek to do what needs must be—We move through bondage with the pastIn service to posterity.
Weary of strife—The surge and clash of city life—I sought for peace in solitude,Within the hushed and darkened woodAnd on the lonesome moor—But found contending leaf and rootEngaged in conflict fierce though mute,While what was frail was slainBy what was strong in dire dispute—I sought for peace in vain!The world, sustained by strife, endures in pain.
"All things that are in conflict be,"I murmured on the shelving strand,Where struggling winds would fain be free—The tides in conflict with the wind's command,Turned tossing, wearily—I heard the loud sea labouring to the land—I saw the dumb land striving with the sea.
(Written in the Stone Gallery of St Paul's.)
The drowsing city sparkles in the heat,And murmur in mine ears unceasinglyThe surging tides of that vast human sea—The billows of life that break with muffled beatAnd vibrate through this high and lone retreat;While over all, serene, and fair, and free,Thy dome is reared in naked majestyGrey, old St Paul's … In thee the Ages meet,Slumbering amidst the trophies of their strife.And in their dreams thou hearest, while the criesOf triumph and despair ascend from Life,The murmurings of immortality—Thou Sentinel of Hope that doth despiseWhat was and is not, waiting what shall be!
"Is baby dead?" he whispered, with wide eyesTearless, but full of eloquent regret,His childish face grown prematurely wise—Pond'ring the problem death before him set.
"Baby is dead," I answered, as I laidMy hand on her frail forehead with a sigh;"Oh! daddy, why did God do this?" he said,And silently my heart made answer, "Why?"
He touched her white, worn face, and said, "How coldIs our wee baby now." … His eyes were deep …Then came his little brother, two years old,He looked, and lisped, "The baby is asleep."
The Wee Folk.—In Gaelic they are usually called "The Peace People" (sithchean). Other names are "Wee Folk" (daoine beaga); "Light Folk" (slaugh eutrom), etc. As in the Lowlands, they are also referred to as "guid fowk" and "guid neighbours."
The Banshee(Beanshith).—Sometimes referred to as "The Fairy Queen," sometimes as "The Green Lady." She sings a song while she washes the clothes of one about to meet a swift and tragic fate. In the Fian poems she converses with those who see her, and foretells the fate of warriors going to battle.
The Blue Men of the Minch(Na Fir Ghorm).—Between the Shant Isles (Charmed Isles) and Lewis is the "Stream of the Blue Men." They are the "sea-horses" of the island Gaels. Their presence in the strait was believed to be the cause of its billowy restlessness and swift currents.
The Changeling.—When the fairies robbed a mother of her babe, they left behind a useless, old, and peevish fairy, who took the form of a child. This belief may have originated in the assumption that when a baby became ill and fretful, it was a changeling.
The Uriskis, if anything, a personification of fear. It is a silent, cloudy shape which haunts lonely moors, and follows travellers, but rarely does more than scare them.
My Fairy Lover.—Fairies fell in love with human beings, and deserted them when their love was returned. Women of unsound mind, given to wandering alone in solitary places, were believed to be the victims of fairy love.
Yon Fairy Dog(An Cu Sith) was heard howling on stormy nights. He was "big as a stirk," one informant has declared The "fearsome tail" appears to have been not the least impressive thing about it. The MacCodrums were brave and fearless, and were supposed to be descended from Seals, which were believed to be human beings under spells.
My Gunna.—This kindly, but solitary, elf herded cattle by night, and prevented them from falling over the rocks. He was seen only by those gifted with the faculty of "second sight." The Gunna resembles the Lowland "Brownie."
Her Evil Eye.—Belief in the Evil Eye is still quite common, even among educated people, in the Highlands. Not a few children wear "the cord," to which a silver coin is appended, as a charm against the influence of "the eye."
The Little Old Man of the Barn(Bodachan Sabhaill).—Like the Gunna, he is a variety the kindly Brownie, and assisted the needy.
Nimble Men(Na Fir Chlis) are "The Merry Dancers," or Aurora Borealis. It was believed that, when the streamers were coloured, the "men and maids" were dancing, and that after the dance the lovers fought for the love of the queen. When the streamers are particularly vivid, a pink cloud is seen below them, and this is called "the pool of blood." It drips upon blood-stones, the spots on which are referred to as fairy blood (fuil siochaire). A wizard could, by waving his wand, summon the "Nimble Men" to dance in the northern sky.
The Water Horsehaunted lonely lochs, and lured human beings to a terrible death. When a hand was laid on its main, power to remove it was withdrawn.
A Cursing—The Gaelic curses are quaint in translation, but terrible in the original.
Bonnach Fallaidh.—It was considered unlucky to throw away the remnants of a baking. So the good-wife made a little bannock, which was pierced in the middle, as a charm against fairy influence. It was given to a child for performing an errand, but the charm would be broken if the reason for gifting it were explained. That was the good-wife's secret. It was also unlucky to count the bannocks, and when they fell, "bad luck" was foretold. Finlay's bannock was not kneaded on the board or placed on the brander, but, unlike the other bannocks, was toasted in front of the fire.
The Gruagachwas a gentlemanly Brownie, who haunted byres. It was never seen, although its shadow occasionally danced on the wall as it flitted about. Often, when chased, it was heard tittering round corners. In some barns, Clach-na-gruagach—"the Gruagach's stone"—is still seen. Milkers pour an offering of milk into the hollowed stone "for luck." The cream might not rise and the churn yield no butter if this service were neglected. A favourite trick of the Gruagach was to untie the cattle in the byre, so as to bring out the milkmaid, especially if she had forgotten to leave the offering of milk.
Tober Mhuire(St Mary's Well) is situated at Tarradale, Ross-shire. When a sick person asks for a drink of Tober Mhuire water, it is taken as a sign of approaching death. It is a curious thing that this reverence for holy water should be perpetuated among a Presbyterian people. Wishing and curative wells are numerous in the North.
The Fians of Knockfarrel.—This story belongs to the Ossianic or Fian cycle of Gaelic tales in prose and verse. Hugh Miller makes reference to it, but speaks of the Fians as giants. In Strathpeffer district the tale is well known, and it is referred to in "Waifs and Strays of Celtic Tradition." It is also localised in Skye. There are several Fian place-names in the Highlands. The warriors are supposed to lie in a charmed sleep in Craig-a-howe Cave, near Munlochy, Ross-shire. Caoilte, the swift runner, was a famous Fian. Finn was chief, and Goll and Garry were of Clan Morna, which united with the Fians. "Moolachie" is a little babe, and "clarsach," a harp.
Ledbag's Warning.—Children who twist their mouths, or squint, are warned that, if the wind changes, their contortions will remain. The fate of the flounder, which mocked the cod, is cited as a terrible example.
Conn, Son of the Redis a Fian tale of which several old Gaelic versions have been collected. Goll, the "first hero" of the Fians, slew the Red when Conn, his son, was seven years old. In the fullness of time the young hero, whom his enemies admire as well as fear, crossed the sea to avenge his father's death, and engaged in a long and fierce duel with Goll.
Death of Cuchullinis from the Cuchullin Cycle of Bronze Age heroic tales. The enemy have invaded and laid waste the province of Ulster, and the chief warriors of the Red Branch, except Cuchullin, who must needs fight alone, are laid under spells by the magicians of the invaders. The poem is suffused with evidences of magical beliefs and practices. Cuchullin goes forth knowing that he will meet his doom. His name signifies "hound of Culann." In his youth he slew Culann's ferocious watch-hound which attacked him, and took its place until another was trained. It was "geis" (taboo) for him to partake of the flesh of a hound (his totem), or eat at a cooking hearth; but he must needs accept the hospitality of the witches. The satirists are satirical bards who, it was believed, could not only lampoon a hero, but infuse their compositions with magical powers like incantations. Cuchullin cannot be slain except by his own spear, which he must deliver up to a satirist who demands it. Emania, the capital of Ulster, was the home of the Bed Branch warriors.
Sleepy Song.—When Diarmid eloped with Grianne, as Paris did with Helen, the Fians followed them, so that Finn, their chief, might be avenged. Diarmid, who is the unwilling victim of Grainne's spells, dreads to meet Finn, and is in constant fear of discovery.